To Catch a Spy (19 page)

“You can’t get enough peanut butter,” Mrs. Plaut announced as we dug in.

I thought it tasted pretty good, but I saw less than enthusiasm from Emma Simcox, who took a few bites and tried to spread the rest around like a kid hoping to hide her hated vegetables. Ben Bidwell was a salesman of some talent and tact. He shook his head and said with a smile, “Exceptional.”

“And nutritious. Peanut butter improves everything,” Mrs. Plaut said, eating her trout.

“I don’t see any peanut butter on your fish,” I said.

“I cannot abide the taste of peanut butter,” she said. “That detracts nothing from its value. It speaks only to my experiences as a child, about which I have written in my family history and of which you are well aware, Mr. Peelers.”

I didn’t remember anything in her family history about peanut butter. She had either never written it and thought she had, or I had simply forgotten or jumped over it. Both and much more were distinct possibilities.

“Got to get going,” Bidwell said, standing and wiping his mouth.

“You haven’t finished,” Mrs. Plaut said.

“Indigestion,” Bidwell said, putting his one hand on his chest.

“I’ll save the rest for you for tonight,” Mrs. Plaut said.

“You are very thoughtful,” Bidwell said and made his escape.

I ate all of my fish and so did Gunther. Emma Simcox sat trying to calculate how much she could leave on her plate without drawing the sharp eyes of her aunt.

“Mr. Peelers,” Mrs. Plaut said. “Please stop at Ralph’s and pick up the items on this list.”

She handed me a sheet of paper, along with three one-dollar bills. I looked at the list.

Sirloin steak—two pounds at 49 cents a pound

One pound of oleo—29 cents

One 24-ounce jar of peanut butter—29 cents

Four pounds of potatoes—25 cents

Mott’s apple jelly—12 ounce jar—13 cents

I put the three dollars and the list carefully into the pocket of my jacket.

“Going after those Hun bugs?” Mrs. Plaut asked as I rose.

“Got to stop them before they take over the world,” I said.

“Bugs are part of God’s great circle of life,” she said, looking up at me. “But I hate the filthy little things. That’s what bug juice was invented for.”

“Amen,” I said and left, Gunther at my side.

“What would you have me do today?” Gunther asked.

I wanted to say “nothing” but I was afraid I’d hurt his feelings. I said, instead, “How about doing research on Caroll College, make phone calls, talk to friends, see what you come up with, particularly about the School of Performance.”

Gunther nodded.

“I shall do what I can,” he said.

Fifteen minutes later, I had my car parked at No-Neck Arnie’s. He was too busy with a big dark Buick to talk, so I walked to the Farraday and up the stairs, which was easier on my neck and shoulder than the jolts when the elevator came to each floor.

Jeremy was on the third floor with his mop.

“Thanks for last night,” I said.

“You are welcome,” he said. “We are having a wake tomorrow night if you can come. Eight o’clock.”

“Who died?”

“Ida M. Tarbell,” he said. “In Easton, Connecticut. She was eighty-six.”

“Ida M. Tarbell?”

“The
Story of Standard Oil.
She was the first to write a book attacking the business practices of a large corporation. She was an inspiration. I’m going to write a poem in her honor. I’ve asked others to do the same. We’ll read them at the wake. Alice and I may publish them in a small folio.”

“Put me down for one,” I said, starting up. to the sixth floor.

“You’ll write a poem about Ida Tarbell?”

“No, I’ll buy a copy of the book,” I said, resuming my trudge upward.

“Come if you can,” he said.

“I will,” I lied.

When I opened the door to the offices of Minck and Peters, Violet greeted me from behind her tiny desk.

“Eddie Booker beat Paul Hartnek on a TKO in the sixth.”

I took a five-dollar bill out of my wallet and handed it to her.

“No more bets,” I said. “Ever.”

She tucked the five into the pocket of her dress with a slightly hurt look.

“Anything else?”

“Jeanne Crain, the actress, 1942 ‘Camera Girl,’ was bitten five times by a wirehaired terrier.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I said.

“She’ll be all right,” Violet said with concern. “But her dog, another terrier, was also bitten trying to help her.”

I didn’t know what to say to that so I reached for the inner door to Sheldon’s office.

“He’s waiting for you,” she said.

“Shelly?”

“No, the good-looking guy who looks like Cary Grant. Is he Grant’s double or stand-in or stuntman or something?”

“Something,” I said.

“Can he get me an autographed picture?” she asked.

“For Rocky?”

“For me,” she said.

“I’ll ask.”

I went in and found myself facing Shelly. There was no one in the chair.

“I heard you come in,” he said, removing the cigar from his mouth.

There were ash stains on his dingy once-white smock, and his office was beginning to show the first small signs of returning to chaos.

“Right,” I said, taking a few steps toward my door.

“Why are you angry with me?” he asked, looking genuinely hurt.

“I’m not.”

“Jeremy told me about last night. You were there. He was there. Gunther was there, even my favorite patient, Mountain, was there. I could have helped, Toby.”

“I’m sure you could have,” I said. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“You know I can be very useful,” he said.

“I know.”

“And you’re sorry you didn’t call me?”

“Very.”

“You know I don’t have all that much to do outside of my work here,” he said, looking around the room. “Not since Mildred.…”

“I’m sorry. I’ll call you next time.”

“As it happens,” he said. “I was busy last night. Mountain has agreed to appear in ads for me with a signed testimonial. I’ll get wrestlers, wrestling fans, all kinds of patients. I was working on the ad.”

“Sounds good.”

“Want to know the motto I plan to put in the ad?”

“Can’t wait.”

Shelly spread his hands flat in front of him and slowly swept them out as if he were putting up a banner.

“Dr. Sheldon Minck can’t come to the mountain, but the Mountain came to Dr. Minck. Like it?”

“Perfect.”

“And under that will be a picture of Mountain, smiling, with a quote signed by him reading, “Dr. Sheldon Minck saved my mouth. He can do the same for you.”

“You’ll be turning patients away,” I said.

“Think so?”

“Can’t miss,” I said.

“The guy with the great teeth is in your office,” he said.

“Violet told me,” I said.

“She tell you I lost five dollars to her on some boxing match?”

“No, but it doesn’t surprise me. You want some advice, Shel? Don’t bet against Violet on any sport, and don’t even think about putting a hand on her. Rocky will come back some day and maybe not in the very distant future.”

Shelly nodded glumly.

“Do we really need a receptionist?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Then how about you kicking in a few dollars for her salary? She takes messages for both of us.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “How about a dollar a month?”

“Well …”

“Seventy-five cents?”

“A dollar,” he said.

I went into my office while he pushed his glasses back on his nose and thought about his imaginary giant ad.

Cary Grant was standing at the window with his hands in his pockets. He turned when I came in.

“Who are those people down there?” he asked.

He had been looking down at the rubble of the small empty lot behind the Farraday with its two decaying automobile wrecks and a little cardboard shack.

“Winos, a few crazies once in a while, people just down on their luck,” I said.

“What must it be like?” he asked.

“I try not to think about it very much,” I said, standing across from him.

“Does it work? Not thinking about it?”

“Most of the time,” I said.

Grant let out a deep sigh and said, “Look, I’m sorry about last night, walking out on you. Believe me, I had to. I made some calls and got you and the others out.”

“And the Nazis, don’t forget them,” I said.

“I’m not. They were let go so they could be watched.”

“To lead them to the big trout,” I said.

“Big trout?”

“Figure of speech,” I said. “The head man.”

“Right. But it probably won’t work. They’ll all be too careful. Besides, there wasn’t enough evidence of anything to hold them. The FBI is checking their fingerprints now, but I doubt if they’ll come up with anything.”

“So?”

He circled around the desk, his head down, thinking.

“He’ll probably try to run,” Grant said. “Get out of the country, make his way to South America or Canada and then maybe back to Germany. The people I’m working with have good reasons for thinking he has some important information, possibly that list of names Volkman was trying to sell me, perhaps even more names.”

“You mean British Intelligence?” I said, sitting in the chair closest to my Dalí painting.

“They do have fewer constraints than your FBI,” he agreed.

“Meaning they’d kill our man if they found him?”

“Possibly,” Grant said, scratching his ear and not facing me. “Possibly.”

“So what’s your plan?”

“We flush him out,” Grant said.

“With what?”

“The transcriptions,” he said. “The ones Volkman and Cookinham made.”

“We’re not sure …”

“We don’t have to be,” Grant said. “He has to think they exist and that we have them, or rather he has to think you have them. He wouldn’t believe I’d try to blackmail him.”

“How do we do this?” I asked.

“Simple,” he said. “You see Miss Jacklyn Wright and tell her you want to make a deal for the transcriptions. You can’t call her. Her phone will be tapped.”

“If I go near her, the FBI will pick me up,” I said.

“Right,” Grant said, pacing in the small space next to my desk, one hand in a pocket, the other rubbing the back of his head. “Is there anyone you can send who the FBI won’t recognize from last night?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Who?”

“Sheldon Minck,” I said.

From beyond the door came Shelly’s voice singing, “Give me some men who are stout-hearted men.”

Grant stopped pacing and tilted his head to one side to look at me as if I were a bizarre specimen.

“I’m sorry if he’s your friend,” he said. “But from what I’ve seen of that man, I think he represents a distinct threat to society.”

“He can do it,” I said. “He can make it casual, slip her a note saying, ‘I’ve got the transcriptions. Tell him.’ And sign it ‘Peters.’”

“He won’t talk to her?” Grant asked.

“I’ll tell him not to.”

“Will he listen?”

“Probably.”

“Do we have a choice?”

“Not a good one I can think of right now,” I said.

Grant faced me, clasped his hands, and put his knuckles to his mouth.

“All right,” he said. “When?”

“Right away,” I said. “I’ll write the note, put it in an envelope, send Shelly to Caroll College, tell him to give it to the secretary in the School of Performance for Jacklyn Wright and turn around and walk away.”

Grant nodded. He didn’t have much enthusiasm for the plan but was going to go along with it. I found a reasonably unblemished sheet of paper in my desk drawer and a pencil that wasn’t too blunt. I wrote the note, put it in an envelope, then sealed it without writing Jacklyn Wright’s name on it.

When Grant and I went back into Shelly’s office, he was still alone. He grinned at us.

“You’ve got a patient coming?” I asked.

“Not for a few hours,” Shelly said. “I’m going to work on my ad campaign.”

“You said you wanted to help. I’ve got a job for you. If you hurry, you can get it done and be back before your patient arrives.”

“It’s important?”

“Yes.”

“Spy stuff?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

Shelly looked at Grant and then at me.

“I’m your man.”

I told him what to do and handed him the envelope. He took off his smock, put on his jacket, and stuck the envelope in his pocket.

“Remember,” Grant said. “Don’t say anything to anyone but the secretary. All you say to her is ‘Please give this to Miss Wright,’ and then you turn around and come back here.”

“Can do,” Shelly said. “What’s it about?”

“Can’t tell you, Shel,” I said. “For your own good.”

“Gotcha,” Sheldon said, winked at Grant and said, in probably the worst imitation I had ever heard, “Judy, Judy, Judy. I know who you are.”

Grant smiled uncomfortably.

When Shelly was out of the door, I looked at Grant.

“I never said Judy, Judy, Judy in a movie,” he said. “In
Only Angels Have Wings,
Rita Hayworth played a character named Judy. I had lines like ‘Come on Judy’ and ‘Hello Judy’ and ‘Now, now Judy’, but never ‘Judy, Judy, Judy.’ That was invented by some comedian named Storch when he introduced Judy Garland at a show. I think more people say that to me than ‘hello.’ I have to tell you, Peters, I don’t have a great deal of faith in your dentist friend.”

“How much damage can he do?” I asked.

“The human mind can only begin to contemplate the possibilities,” Grant said. “What now?”

“We wait,” I said.

CHAPTER

13

“We’re having dinner for a few friends tonight,” Grant said, checking his watch as he sat in Shelly’s dental chair. “Regular group. Freddy Brisson and Roz Russell, Gene Tierney and Oleg Casini, Louis Jourdan and his wife, Alex Korda and Merle Oberon, and June Duprez and the Baron Guy de Rothschild.”

“Impressive,” I said.

“It was meant to impress,” he said. “The point is I’ve got to be there. Let’s just say relations between me and my wife are getting a little strained. If I missed this dinner, I don’t know what would happen.”